


never seen that color blue

by rillrill



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Some Exposition About The Elbow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 15:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: Corey hesitates, but it's with a look of longing. Chase catches those pretty eyes lingering on his hands, his lips, everywhere but where they should be. "I don't know," Corey says after a moment. "I'm really fucking tired."Chase shakes his head. "Then you should go home. Or else we can go back to my place. Put some ice on it."





	never seen that color blue

**Author's Note:**

> When your team sucks, cope by writing fic.
> 
> Title is Taylor Swift, because _do the girls back home touch you like I do?_ gets me every time.

They're too bone-tired to have the benefit of good judgment on their side; that's the argument Chase's gonna revert to, if or when (and it's probably gonna be when) this all comes down to bite him in the dick. It’s rough. It’s not going great this week, or at all, and as it dwindles down to him, Rich and Corey in the clubhouse, shooting the shit until late, and with Rich between them to mitigate the tension it's not so bad — it's part of what Chase's always liked about Rich, the way he just talks and talks until whatever air bubble of tension's in the room just pops unnoticed. But an hour in, Rich yawns and announces, "Well, fuck y’all. I have to crash."

"Night, man," Corey says in a hollow voice, and Chase echoes it, watching him leave. And then there's a strange, dangerous kind of silence, as Corey shuffles his phone around in front of him in front of him, flipping it hand to hand — nimble fingers, one of the first things Chase ever noticed about him — and starts to scroll through his messages again.    
  
“I figured I would tell you now, since it’s gonna come out this week,” Corey says quietly, sounding cowed, and Chase’s stomach jerks. “I’m having surgery.”   
  
Chase winces. “Shit.”   
  
“Probably gonna miss the rest of the season.” 

Chase looks over at the kid, all bright-eyed and burned, and something aches inside him, a little tinge of suction somewhere deep inside his chest. “You should’ve had it last summer,” he says, knowing it’s the wrong thing to say, but Corey doesn’t argue, just nods.   
  
“No shit,” he says, and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know, I’m pissed, but I just want to get through it.”   
  
“No, that’s…” Chase trails off. “I don’t know. It’s rough.”

He can't really fault Rich for tapping out when he did; he’s down, now, and it’s hard to laugh. Fuck, he’s tired. But it's only when Chase clears his throat roughly that Corey finally looks up.

"Let's have a beer, kid," Chase says finally. 

Corey hesitates, but it's with a look of longing. Chase catches those pretty eyes lingering on his hands, his lips, everywhere but where they should be. "I don't know," Corey says after a moment. "I'm really fucking tired."

Chase shakes his head. "Then you should go home. Or else we can go back to my place. Put some ice on it."

It's not subtle; it hangs in the air like a thundercloud, heavy and about to burst. He watches Corey consider it, watches his brow ripple with the thought that pulses through him. He's just about to back out, thinking it was too much too soon, maybe he misread this again — but then:

"The second option," Corey says, swallowing half of the sentence before he spits it out. "I wouldn't mind that."

Chase pauses. Corey's hand with his phone is still clenched, knuckles going white. He's not moving. "Yeah?" asks Chase, just to be on the safe side.

Corey swallows again. "Yeah."

And Chase nods, trying for confidence, feigning assurance. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Let's split, then."

 

 

Chase gets a car alone, letting Corey trail him close behind in his Uber. The driver lets him off out front; notices with relief that Corey, at least, has the good sense to get out of the car down the street — but then he's jaywalking across the dark, empty avenue and jogging up the winding driveway to the front door, taking them two at a time to join Chase there at the door as he fumbles, fingers akimbo and unhelpful, with the door. It takes him three tries to even get the key into the lock, and then Corey's hand covers his, and Corey mutters, "Hey, let me try it—"

Chase wants to jerk away, but he doesn't. Corey turns his hand over and the key turns with it, and as the door clicks open, Chase looks down at the pretty kid at his side, all of 24 and looking up at him with a sort of singular wanting that makes him feel clumsy and uncomfortable but focused nonetheless, and Chase smiles.

The house is quiet, save for the quiet, routine beep of the alarm system as he doesn't know what he expected, but he's thankful for it anyway, as they slam the door shut in their wake. Chase pushes up to kiss Corey and feels him stoop to meet his mouth, frenzied and wanting and practiced and perfect all at once, and it's perfect.

If there's a flaw in the design, it's that he's just too fucking tall — Chase's tall enough to usually crowd a partner up against a wall, but Corey's even taller, all long legs and big hands that shake and scrabble and grasp for more. Chase stops him, and grabs him around the waist. Corey yields to him, and Chase feels a warm sizzle of power in his chest.

Corey moans into his mouth as Chase stumbles blindly in the direction of the bedroom, and Corey lets out a shocked, breathy exhale on impact as Chase deposits him on the bed, and it’s happening so fast, so much. Chase can feel a joint pop in his wrist as he clambers down on all fours atop Corey; he can feel his shirt sticking to him with sweat. He pushes the offending piece of hair back off his forehead and yanks at his collar as Corey scrambles up onto his elbows, and then Corey winces _ , Fuck, ow _ , and Chase doesn't think — he just  _ wants _ , and gently pushes Corey back down, flat on the bedclothes.

"Fuck," he hears Corey say out loud. "Oh my god."  
  
Chase swallows again as he watches Corey shift on the bed, watching him. The idea of fumbling with his clothes seems fundamentally impossible right now, buttons and shit, but at the same time, he can’t bear to have them all on much longer anyway, and Corey’s looking at him with a scared sort of terrible hunger and something growls inside Chase, something he hasn’t felt in much too long, and before he knows what his hands are doing, he’s grappling with buttons and belt loops, shrugging out of his t-shirt and jeans and surging forward to trap Corey more fully against the pillows.

Corey bucks up against him, doesn’t bother to hide his excitement. He’s so  _ responsive _ , Chase thinks, the way he keens as Chase bites his jaw and then sucks a hard kiss to the sensitive skin on his neck. He’s taking it, accepting what he’s given, wrapping his legs around Chase’s waist again to pull him down to his mouth. And Chase goes, willingly, caging him in on all fours, all power and authority.  _ Stupid idea _ and  _ think about it _ aren’t the words he’s looking for — Corey’s got the fingers on his right hand sunk into Chase’s bicep, where his arm is trembling a little from holding himself up, and Corey’s stroking him there and panting against his lips and licking hot and dirty into his mouth, and it’s just too much.

“Switch me,” Chase mumbles, and then pulls away long enough to clarify: “You get on top. Take your fucking clothes off, kid.”

Corey does, almost abashed, yanking his shirt over his head one-handed and stripping down to his boxer briefs before he straddles Chase comfortably on the middle of the bed. He's grinding down, knowingly, much too knowingly as he eyes Chase’s erection, tenting his boxers — and Chase has half a mind to pull him up his chest to his face, hurl his underwear across the room, let Corey straddle his mouth as he eats that sweet ass, awkward position be damned —  _ Sit on my face like a good boy _ , he forms the words with his lips. Wonders if he’s half as responsive as he hopes he is. He wants to find out, _ needs _ to know, but Corey’s still grinding down, his abs flexing with every movement, and it’s already much too much.

Corey’s eyes flick up to Chase’s, grey-blue and cloudy, and he licks his lips thoughtfully before hooking his fingertips into the elastic of his boxers and pulling them carefully over his cock, down over his thighs.

Corey sucks in a surprised breath. Chase smirks.

“Whaddya want,” he mumbles, but it’s undercut by how Corey’s looking at him. A little scared, but challenged.

“God,” Corey says quietly, voice low and raspy. “I knew you were, but —”

“Don’t just look at it,” Chase says, thrusting his hips up for emphasis.

“—I didn’t expect,” Corey says. Then: “I want to.”

“Here,” Chase says, smacking Corey hard on the hip, slipping a fingertip into his waistband and snapping the elastic of his underwear against his skin. “Take this off, get up here, flip around.”

It takes Corey a moment to follow the direction, but he cottons on fairly quickly, yanks his boxer briefs off and lowers himself back down over Chase’s chest. It’s almost a regrettable position at first realization, Chase thinks — he wants to watch, wants to see Corey struggle with his cock — but then he grabs Corey by the hips, pulls him backward, balls and ass-first, and hears him exhale in surprise, and —  _ oh, this is so fucking good _ . Licks a stripe up his perineum, hears him mumble a  _ Jesus Fuck _ , and then it’s not even worth holding out any longer, can’t bring himself to tease, not when he’s got all this in his face and Corey digging fingers into the muscles of his thighs, bracing himself for impact.

Chase reaches up with both hands, spreads Corey wide. “God, I can't wait to rail this fucking ass,” he says, low and lusty, even though he doubts they’ll get around to that — but he can dream, can’t he, a guy can dream — and on Corey’s airless little gasp, he’s going all in, swiping his tongue across his hole, cupping his balls, applying himself in every way he knows how. Corey’s gasping, writhing with it, not even bothering to fulfill his duty in the position. Doesn't matter. Chase’s hard as he’s ever been, as he starts, basically, making out with Corey's hole, open-mouthed and nasty, making him buck back against his face, thrusting his cock over Chase’s chest, like he’s desperate for friction.

“Fuck,” Corey’s panting, “oh my God, Jesus, Chase,” and then, “ _ Daddy _ —” and here Chase smacks his ass hard, for emphasis,  _ say that again _ . He’ll take  _ Daddy  _ over  _ Silver Fox  _ any fucking day. He’s thrusting his hips faster now, and as much as Chase wants to make him come like this — all lips and mouth and friction against his fucking sternum, Jesus Christ, the kid's a masterpiece — it’s not quite right. He pulls away. Uses one of the hands splayed across Corey's ass to wipe his mouth.

“Jesus,” he says, breathing heavy as Corey keeps thrusting; grabs his hips with both hands to steady him. “You need to blow me before I lose my fucking mind.”

Somehow, they maneuver themselves back around, Corey wincing every time he props too much weight on his bad arm. Chase props himself up enough on the bed to watch Corey shuffle downward, takes note of the flush on his cheeks all the way down to his chest. Corey blushes uneven, pretty but blotchy, like a Rorschach test. He’s not seeing anything but the distinct outline of his own desperate need here.

“Corey,” he says again. “You need to blow me before my head fucking explodes.”

He sees Corey swallow, nodding; Chase glances down at his own cock, laying hard and stupid up to his belly. Corey’s looking him over analytically, that problem-solving fervor in his eyes, the look he only gets when faced with a challenge he has no choice but to overcome. It fills Chase with a sick sort of pride. He knows, figures, at least, that the kid is inexperienced where dicks are involved, but the look on Corey’s face is telling. He's not prepared for Corey to close his eyes before sliding off the bed and onto the floor; watches as he shuffles on his knees to the very edge of the mattress, bracing himself. “Okay,” Corey says. “Like this.”

He’s not gonna argue; sits there at the edge of the mattress with his legs spread wide and accommodating as Corey shuffles between them. Corey’s looking up at him with hooded eyes, licking his lips, before holding that searing, searching eye contact long enough to lift his hand to his lips and lave over it in one long, flat stroke, all confidence and grit. Chase groans despite himself.   
  
“ _ Corey _ ,” he says, one more time for good measure. “Fuck. Get the fuck on with it, baby.”   
  
Corey hums at that, like he likes what he hears, and Chase’s insides jump. And then Corey takes his cock in his slick palm and lowers his mouth, tonguing the head delicately before he takes it between his lips, and Chase’s eyes slide shut on impact, the feeling velvet-soft and overwhelming.   
  
He can hear it, the way Corey tries to establish a rhythm, bobbing up and down with slick noises and letting the head hit the underside of his tongue. It’s not nearly enough; Corey’s not taking enoug. Chase reaches out, threads a hand through his hair, and tugs slightly, pulling him off. “You know how to deep throat?” he asks, and from the look of vague upset that instantly washes over Corey’s face, he knows the answer.   
  
“Yeah,” Corey lies, convincingly but not quite enough, and Chase sighs.   
  
“Lemme show you,” he says. Tries to keep his voice placid even though he wants to scream. “Here. Just let go, let me guide you.”   
  
Corey’s having trouble. He can tell only a few seconds in, the way his throat convulses before he pulls away, choking and coughing. He looks so fucking good doing it, though, that Chase can’t think twice. “S’okay,” he says, voice rough, “you can fuckin’ choke on it if you need to —”   
  
The breath Corey draws at that is ragged and hungry, and he’s barely so much as taken it before he’s diving back down, letting Chase push him down again. Eyes closed, but Chase can see the tears starting to gather at the inner corners, and he’s scarcely gotten another inch further before he’s pulling away again and they’re starting to roll down his cheeks. But they’re both gone, Corey with a secure purpose, locked-in and hungry and eager, his lower lip swollen and pink and face red and blotchy. There’s spit and snot and tears all running, coagulating together at once as he lets Chase guide him down, over and over, and he’s digging his fingers into Chase’s thighs, holding himself there, eyes shut tight, silently swallowing —   
  
“Fuck, Corey,  _ baby _ .” Chase’s barely aware of his own voice; couldn’t modulate his tone or words if he tried. He’s nothing but words and want, his cock and the throat it’s buried in, the way Corey keeps pulling off to hack and choke and diving back down with an angry sort of need. Eyes closed, head-first. Hungry and needy and desperate to please; more spite and rage than real desire at this point. Chase’s not stupid. Chase’s been around guys like this long enough to know one when he sees one. And then Corey swallows around him, fingers digging in  _ hard _ on his thighs — and that little bit of pain is enough to make the difference.   
  
Chase comes, loudly. Inelegantly. Inarticulate. Corey has no warning; he tries to parry it, but pulls off mid-way, coughing and catching the rest of it in the face, string of saliva connecting between the head of Chase’s dick and his lips —   
  
“Fuck, baby,” Chase pants as he comes down, “please, let me make you come, I want to see you come for me —”   
  
He’s barely said it before Corey’s palming his own dick, stroking himself off, still kneeling there on the floor. Chase tries to stop him, almost succeeds, but he’s too far gone. A little of his come lands on the side of the duvet.   
  
This was stupid, he realizes. This was so fucking stupid and he wants to regret it, but Corey’s breathing heavy, like he’s just exerted himself, and his face is a fucking porn-star mess and he’s so young and pretty, perfect unblemished skin and he’d only look better if he were more of a mess. Chase helps him up; hands him a Kleenex and points him toward the bathroom as he asks. He hears weird, heavy breathing and something that sounds, at one point, almost like an inarticulate sob.   
  
But Corey comes back to bed, and Corey curls up next to him and falls asleep quickly. Corey smells different, same locker room shower products but a warm heat diffusing it all, dirty sexy sweat that Chase wants to bottle and breathe in forever. He’s out in minutes, and Chase normally never has trouble sleeping, but this time —   
  
No, he thinks, fuck it; he can’t intellectualize this now. It won’t happen again. He got what he wanted, and the kid is low right now, and it won't happen again.   
  
He tells himself this, again and again, as he drifts into an uneasy daze.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't get used to this. I just have a lot of feelings.


End file.
